Hit And Run
by infiniteviking
Summary: The autopsy van runs into some trouble on the way to a crime scene, and Palmer discovers why the driving skills of an NCIS field agent can be so important. Written for Livejournal's NCIS Ficathon.


**Hit And Run**

_In the beginning, there was a man's broken face, staring blindly up at the broken sky; and the light that glinted in the tattered spaces of his sunken skin did nothing -- would never do anything -- to break the night that had covered his eyes forever._

**.o0o.**

"No, no, no!" Ducky's voice, testy and irritated, cut off with a near squeak as the autopsy van hit another pothole. "That would have been your other left, Mr. Palmer; you'll have us off in the wilds of Delaware if you don't watch the signs--"

Jimmy Palmer clutched the wheel in a white-knuckled grip and flinched as paper crackled in his peripheral vision. While Dr. Mallard certainly knew how to handle a map, it was undeniably a fairly large map, and some of these off-roads were rudimentary enough to go unseen until one was right on top of them.

"What on earth's the matter?" demanded Ducky, as the vehicle slowed a bit. "This isn't a war zone, you know."

"It might as well be -- these potholes have got to be a foot deep--" Palmer kept his eyes fixed on the sandy lane, cursing the hours he'd spent studying instead of playing Grand Theft Auto like all the other guys. Hah, he'd actually missed that one bump. The knowledge made the next three a bit easier to bear.

He gritted his teeth as the van jounced again. The call had assuredly been a last-minute one, but that was par for the course, and everything would have been all right except that the GPS was broken and Dr. Mallard had the map.

"I was just asking myself what Gibbs would do," he added hastily, catching the doctor's stern-but-patient look out of the corner of his eye. "And I was thinking, he's probably already there by now, so we should be able to follow his tire tracks to the site, only this road just doesn't look like--"

"Speaking from experience," sighed Ducky, "the first thing Gibbs would do is to--"

Somewhere in the cab, a cell phone rang.

Palmer glanced toward the sound.

He was just in time to catch the change in Ducky's face. "LOOK OUT-!"

**.o0o.**

"'Mine is thine -- your Caroline,'" read Kate, turning the bowie knife over with a gloved finger so DiNozzo could get a picture of the inscription. "Looks like our guy left someone behind."

"Helloooo, suspect," drawled her partner. The camera flashed, but Kate had learned to keep the bill of her NCIS cap between her face and the lens. In the long run, a little effort saved a great deal on peace of mind.

"Aren't you supposed to give people the benefit of the doubt?" she said irritably. "From the inscription, it sounds like Caroline really cared about him. Isn't that a point in her favor?"

"You always hurt the one you love," chirped DiNozzo, with the special bright smile that he reserved for getting on Kate's nerves. "Plus we don't even know if it's his yet. Not to mention that line is really, really tacky."

"And that makes such a difference."

"You'd be surprised."

Adding the knife to her crime scene sketch, Kate glanced ruefully over at the centerpiece of the scene: the pitifully crumpled remains of the late Cpl. Haldir. ("He didn't die in the book," McGee had commented, and rolled his eyes when nobody wanted to know.) _Can't we at least cover him up?_ she had asked, thumbing an unwomanly streak of sweat from under the rim of her hat. There was something inhuman and wrong about leaving the broken body exposed under the harsh sun. But no, Gibbs had ruled that a tarp would interfere with the natural changes in Haldir's body temperature. His exact words had been, "Do you _want_ Ducky to find out you're responsible for broiling his corpse?"

"Over here!" called DiNozzo, from a few feet away. He was stooping over something that protruded just slightly from the sand, its pale cardboard shrouding it with nearly chameleonic invisibility. Leaning over to preserve the appearance of the soil, Kate marked it with an evidence card and watched as her partner took the required pictures. Even an old cigarette butt could be an important clue.

"We're going to have to sift through this... this whole sand-pit, aren't we?" she groaned. "Ducky and Palmer had better get here soon. Why should we have all the fun?"

There was no answer, and after a moment she followed her partner's gaze to where Gibbs was pacing, a cell phone held tightly to his ear.

"Somehow," muttered DiNozzo, "I don't think they're missing out."

**.o0o.**

"Still alive," said Ducky, his fingers at the neck of the young woman lying prone at the side of the road.

"I didn't mean it, I swear." Palmer hovered at his side, pale as a ghost. "She just ran right out in front of the van. Oh, God, what happens now? Will Gibbs have to arrest me?"

"No, no, certainly not." The medical examiner looked up reassuringly. "You'll have to report it, but I really don't think it can be construed as your fault... the young woman did seem quite distracted. Now, there's no obvious sign of injury, but we should probably bring her round before moving her..."

"Did I really hit her?" moaned Palmer. "I didn't feel anything -- maybe I turned in time--?"

"That's not always conclusive. Sometimes a severe impact can seem quite light," said Ducky, and cursed himself when Palmer's expression segued from worried to frantic.

Something beeped from the van.

"I'll get that!" yelped Palmer, and fled. Ducky sat back on his heels, studying the woman's pale face and the dark smudges under her eyes.

"He'll get over it, of course," he told her. "Even faster if you turn out to be unharmed. There's no sign of any impact on your person, at least not that I can see. You could have collapsed from exhaustion or even shock. Dear, dear, whatever could have brought you to this..."

There was no response. Birds sang overhead. The narrow lane was completely deserted.

Looking over toward the autopsy van, Ducky shook his head ruefully. "Never mind, we'll know what happened soon enough. Luckily you're among the one percent of my patients who will eventually get up and walk away."

As he stood up, something dark caught his eye. He stopped abruptly, a chill washing down his spine, and walked carefully around the woman to stoop over her outflung arm. The shape was barely visible under her voluminous sleeve, the protruding edge polished and black. Perhaps it was just a stone.

Carefully, he raised the edge of her sleeve, and then sighed.

The military-issue gun had just made everything far more complex.

**.o0o.**

"She's right here in the college facebook," crowed Abby, her voice fuzzing over with static as the three agents bent over the speakerphone. "Caroline Crowley, demonic sophomore -- you know it's true, McGee -- okay, I'm making the demonic part up, but still..."

"Abs, the omens will not be good if you don't get to the point," interrupted Gibbs, and Kate had to smirk at DiNozzo's astonished jawdrop.

"Won three academic honors last year, neck deep in the medical program: looks like she's everyone's favorite little rising star." There was wry respect in Abby's voice. "Her posting dropped off during midterms, but so did everyone else's. She just never really picked up again. From the tone, I'd guess there was something big taking up her concentration."

"Or someone," commented DiNozzo. A few dozen yards away, flies swarmed ghoulishly about the corpse.

"Well," said Abby, "if they were involved, it was like a massive secret. They definitely knew each other; her father's a Marine -- they could have met on the base. There was a lot of not-nice talk, and she just let it go on. If she ever said anything, one way or the other, I haven't found it."

"Probably the best thing she could have done," Kate mused. "Denials only make these rumors spread faster."

DiNozzo opened his mouth to say something, glanced at Gibbs, and shut up. Sometimes working for a scary boss had a definite up side.

"What about Ducky?" interjected Gibbs.

McGee's tinny voice answered. "Well, they're in a dead zone, boss. You can't get through, but I can still get an echo from their GPS. They've been in the same spot for over ten minutes."

"They probably got a flat tire, boss," offered DiNozzo. "Either that or Palmetto drove them into a swamphol-- _erk_!"

"_You_ got headslapped, didn't you?" Abby's smirk was very audible over the connection. "Serves you right for picking on poor Palmer. Gi-i-iiibs, you need to do it louder, I didn't get to hear--"

"Exactly where are they, McGee?" interrupted Gibbs.

McGee told him.

"In English, McGee."

Kate and DiNozzo eyed one another, each tallying up reasons why the other should be the one to stay behind and babysit the deceased.

Some things would never, ever change.

**.o0o.**

"How is she, Doctor?" The words were out of Palmer's mouth before he rounded the side of the van, but he stopped short at the sight of his victim sitting up, her long legs tucked under her.

"I'm all right." The voice took him by surprise. Older than she had seemed, even without the pain and confusion straining her expressive features. She looked blankly up at the van, automatically brushing back the sandy hair that had tangled across her face, and Ducky steadied her as she swayed. "You... ran into me...?"

"Um," said Palmer.

"No," interrupted Ducky at the same time. "At least," he amended hastily, "inasmuch as I can ascertain upon peripheral examination -- I happen to be a physician, my dear -- you look faint, and no wonder in this heat -- would you like something to drink? There's a water cooler in the back of the van."

It turned out to be the first liquid the woman had taken all day. As she sipped bottled water, Palmer drew Ducky aside, fidgeting with the cell phone from the car.

"There's no reception here. We've got two texts from McGee and--" he gulped -- "twenty-five missed calls from Agent Gibbs."

"In these situations," Ducky said reassuringly, "his bark is usually worse than his bite. Well, we'll just have to move into an area with better reception. I take it the van didn't suffer from its abrupt cessation of motion?"

"No, it's fine, it should be normal--" Palmer broke off, looking up. "Can he track us by satellite? Because it really feels like he's looking at us right now."

"Agent Gibbs may be many things," chuckled the doctor, "but he's not omnipotent. At least I hope not. Now then--" turning back to their guest -- "feeling better yet?"

She was. As she brushed sand from her clothes, Palmer shifted uneasily, brooding on the unfairness of the universe. They were almost an hour later, and Gibbs was not a good person to fall foul of. If they hadn't been out in the middle of the wilderness, the niggling feeling that the man was breathing down his neck would have been a lot more worrisome.

"Have you tried texting Timothy back, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky was saying. "Perhaps if his messages could get through to us--"

"I'll try right now." Palmer whipped out the cell phone again, glad to feel useful. "What should I say?"

"Simply that we've had what he would probably call a 'random encounter' and there's no need to send another car out; when we arrive at our destination, somebody will be able to take Miss Crowley back to--"

Palmer's thumb froze above the buttons.

"Crowley?"

"Why, yes." Ducky looked back in surprise. "Caroline Crowley; she's taking her clinicals at--"

It happened too fast for Palmer to speak. The knowledge must have been all over his face: _that's not Carol Crowley, I know her, Carol isn't_ -- but she was moving before he could form the words, reaching for something in her sleeve, and Ducky's hand shot to the bag at his side, his eyes widening in alarm. Then the doctor's face hardened and he lunged forward, shoving the woman backwards into the autopsy van with all his strength, and her gun came up and there was a thunderclap and Palmer staggered back as though struck by lightning.

After a confused moment, in which his nerves entirely failed to process the pain, he became aware of Dr. Mallard shouting in his ear, hauling him towards the front of the van. The door was closed behind them -- the doctor was in the driver's seat -- could he even work an automatic shift? Palmer reached for the wheel, realized that he hadn't moved his hand and that it was clamped over his arm, dripping with blood; and there was Ducky's voice, harsher than he'd ever heard it: "_Hold on_--"

The van shuddered and shot straight ahead, toward the side of the road. Palmer caught a flash of color outside: she wasn't in the back of the van; she'd got out; she was coming. Ducky crashed through a stand of reedy weeds, slewing around, and Palmer could have sworn they'd heeled over on two wheels. The woman who wasn't Caroline Crowley stood in their path, blocking the road and raising both hands to aim again; the lumbering van hurtled straight for her, so that she sprang aside. A tire blew as she fired again.

Another car skidded in behind her, showering her with gravel, and there were Gibbs and Kate, guns drawn and voices raised, and as Ducky wrenched the wheel to the side Palmer missed seeing the woman's gun hit the ground.

After a moment the world stopped moving. Palmer blinked tears of pain out of his eyes, his hand clenched over his wounded arm, and stared out his window at the tire tracks and the trail of broken reeds.

"There now, Jimmy," Ducky was saying. "Let me see that--"

Palmer looked back at him and made a mental vow that someday, when he was a world-famous forensic medical examiner, he would be able to drive like that too.

**.o0o.**

"Brandi Petersen," recited DiNozzo. "Same med school, got kicked out last year, series of harassing phone calls to our late corporal, saying she knows he can't live without her and she's going to prove it."

Ducky glanced up from his work, a trace of amusement crossing his face. The younger agent sounded distinctly aggrieved -- Kate had clearly had a chance to say _I told you so_.

"How is he, Duck?" asked Gibbs, tilting his head at the door to the washroom, where Palmer was determinedly rinsing out his bloodstained jumper with one hand.

"He'll live." Ducky smiled wryly. "It's only a flesh wound -- _don't_ start, Anthony -- being shot always seems so much worse the first time. And unlike poor Gerald, he'll be able to return to work within a few days."

Gibbs said nothing, leaning over the autopsy table to examine some marks on the decedent's skin.

"I think," added Ducky, "you'll find that those bruises are consistent with the shoes our suspect was wearing when we picked her up. I believe Abby is analyzing the corporal's brand of cigarettes. You'll have a good prima facie case if it can be established that no one else was there."

"I know," said Gibbs mildly, rounding the autopsy table as Ducky straightened from the site of his latest incision. "Now tell me what's really bothering you."

His face falling, Ducky glanced back down at the corpse.

"She must have retrieved her firearm while we were assisting her to the van. It was a rookie error -- I should have put it out of reach at once."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs asked, still looking at Ducky, "what was our suspect expelled for again?"

"That would have been because of her larceny conviction. Picking pockets, among other things. She's supposed to be really, really good at it." DiNozzo grinned as Gibbs, with a characteristically silent don't-worry-it's-not-your-fault smile for Ducky, leaned over to place something on the counter before turning toward the door. "Aw, boss, that's touching. Would you get me something if I got shot?"

"Nope," said Gibbs laconically, heading for the elevator without looking back. "You won't get shot."

The doors slid shut behind them as Palmer emerged from the washroom, wincing as he reached over to close the door with his left hand. His eyes shifted nervously to the door, and Ducky smiled, aware of what Gibbs had left on the counter with the rest of Palmer's things.

A steaming hot cup of coffee.

And a map.

--

Written for Settiai in Livejournal's NCIS Ficathon, to the prompt 'Gen, casefic. Ducky and Jimmy end up saving the day.'


End file.
